In 1992 my husband and I traveled to the Netherlands on vacation. We were young, it was only our second trip outside the United States, and I think half the decision was made upon the belief that it seemed like an un-intimidating country to visit, with a high probability of finding English speakers. All these assumptions proved to be true. Never the less, we determined that we should learn to speak at least some limited Dutch before departing. In the strange way that serendipitous events often unfold, the decision to learn to speak Dutch led us to one of my most memorable meals.
Dutch in 3 months....that's what the class (and the text) promised us. The class was undertaken to introduce us to those key phrases we would need as intrepid travelers. That very first lesson we learned one particularly important phrase that all travelers to the Netherlands find themselves rapidly in need of. That phrase was "I have a lion." We laughed on our way home that we would certainly prepared if we encountered any lions on our trip.
About a month later while reading a cast off magazine in the doctor's office waiting room, I ran across a short article on traveling in the Netherlands. It referenced the small town of Bronkhorst and highlighted an inn and restaurant called De Gouden Leeuw, or The Golden Lion. I wrote down the information and we decided that whatever else we did in the Netherlands, we must stay at The Golden Lion. Surely that first Dutch lesson was meant to propel our attention toward this out of the way place.
And so we did visit Bronkhorst and De Gouden Leeuw. Bronkhorst is in a beautiful area. I remember everything cloaked in a soft bluish mist that seemed to rise up from the water in the evening and hang in the air. There was a mildness that extended from the weather to the people themselves. We did not find that everyone at the inn spoke English, but we did find that it didn't matter.
On our only night there, we visited their rustic dining room for a pre-fixe dinner. Our waiter was tall, bald and wore a mischievous smile. And he was a wonder. Between his broken English and our broken Dutch we forged a bond. Rarely have I been served by someone who seemed to so truly want us to find pleasure in our meal. Either he faked it superbly or got tremendous joy from seeing others find delight. He was the teacher and we his eager students.
Our first course was squab, raised by the inn themselves. I admit that the youngster I was would not ordinarily have ordered what many Americans look at as nothing more than avian rat and I approached it with skepticism. It was served medium rare and carried just a hint of gaminess. My husband found it a bit livery for his taste, but the adventure was on.
We eventually moved on to springbok, flown in from South Africa. Was it wild? Was it farmed? I don't know. My concern for the welfare of the world's animal resources was not terribly developed at the time. But it was delicious, served in a rich red wine sauce and the one and only time I have ever seen springbok on a menu. From one course to the other we floated through our meat, combined with what seemed like round after round of savory accompaniment.
By the time we got to dessert, we could barely move. We couldn't imagine how we were going to make it through the final course. Our gentle friend approached with the dessert tray, which had eight desserts to choose from. We began to eye the possibilities. With a grin and a flourish, he set the whole tray before us. It took a moment to realize we were not intended to make one selection, we were meant to enjoy all eight desserts. And we did. I don't entirely remember today what the desserts were, and I wish now that I had written down everything that passed my lips. But I will never forget the fun he had in presenting it to us, and the warmth of the experience. And I have learned to follow serendipity, wherever it takes me.
